Funeral Pyres
by Dollar Short
Summary: Alternate ending to 'Asylum', Dr Ellicott's patients have some unfinished business with Sam.
1. Chapter 1

Dean slammed the bathroom door and the walls of the room shook . Sam stood rooted to the spot, his words dying on his lips, he was beginning to realise that there was no easy fix for this, he had tried to apologize, explain, but he sounded weak and unconvincing even to his own ears, and Dean was in no mood to let him off lightly.

The ride back to their motel had been silent and tense, Sam had kept his head down hardly daring to look at Dean, not that he needed to, he knew without looking that Dean's jaw was clenched, that his knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel and that his awkward posture as he over- revved the engine was a direct result of Sam blasting his chest with a barrel or two of rock salt. Sam had wanted to say more, try to get Dean to see past the angry, hurtful words that had been forced out of Sam's mouth, but the further they got from the asylum the more his head had started to pound. It hadn't been painful at first, more of a tickle behind his eyes, a slight whispering that seemed to shift from ear to ear, but by the time Dean turned the car, a little too sharply, into the motel parking lot, Sam felt like something was trying to slam his eyeballs through their sockets from inside his head and the whispering had turned into a full blown shriek.

Dean had exited the car slowly, hunched over and without a backward glance at Sam, had headed straight for their room. Sam had followed just as slowly, one hand supporting his head and wondering if it might not be best for both of them if the damn thing just fell off there and then. He stepped inside the room just in time to see Dean shrug off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor and disappear into the bathroom.

Sam sat down on the nearest bed and realised that he was shaking, from what, he wasn't even sure, shock, remorse or just good old fashioned exhaustion. He closed his eyes and dropped back onto the bed, which due to the less than soft mattress jarred his neck muscles and caused a new burst of pain to bloom behind his eyes.

'Fuck', he hissed and took a few deep breathes to try and calm his body and mind. The shrieking in his ears was more of a muted hiss now, one with a sibilant rolling rhythm, almost like a short repetitive chant. Sam's eyes flew open and he drew in a deep ragged breath at the abrupt understanding of what it was he could hear. Voices, many voices, rising and falling as they called out to him, and although the voices were indistinct and formless he knew what they were saying.

A sudden noise from the bathroom told him Dean was taking a shower, whether from necessity or avoidance Sam suddenly found that he didn't care. He was off the bed and banging at the bathroom door before he knew what he was doing.

"Dean, Dean" his voice was rough , he banged at the door again and was relieved when he heard the water stop, the door opened and Dean, a towel around his waist and still wet from the shower, stood gazing at him, his face expressionless.

"Something you want" he asked coldly. Sam felt sick, his brother's chest was a mass of swollen flesh and blotchy red welts, blood that had obviously been washed away by the shower just starting to well up again, other patches of skin just looked raw, the top layers ripped away by the shotgun blast. There was no bruising, but Sam knew that within a few hours Dean chest would probably be black and blue. Sam looked at his brother, meeting his eyes.

" There's something, I have..," he stopped unsure of how he could explain when he didn't understand himself.

"There's, uh, something I need to do, so I'm taking the car. If that's okay, with you, I mean", he meant to sound more forceful, but his voice shook, Dean just stared, Sam tried to meet his eyes but ended dropping his gaze to floor.

"Fine." Dean's voice was flat, he turned back into the bathroom and didn't quite slam the door in Sam's face. Sam stood, still looking down, both glad and disappointed that Dean didn't ask why or where he was going. The pain behind his eyes had lessened slightly but the whispers still called for him.

The drive back to the asylum seemed to take no time at all and as Sam pulled up he didn't really remember the route he'd taken, the closer he came to the abandoned hospital the louder voices had become again and as he pulled the keys from the ignition the shrieking returned. He found himself stumbling from the car, hardly able to open his eyes against the dull morning sun.

Sheltering his eyes, Sam peered through his fingers, the wire gates looked higher and more daunting than before. Damn, he thought, but as he lifted his hands to pull himself up, the gates swung open before him. Sam hesitated and then walked quickly towards the battered doors, which opened for him just as the gates had done. As soon as he stepped across the threshold the noises in his head were immediately silenced and for a instant it felt as if a great sigh echoed through the walls. Sam paused, listening, there was no sound or movement, no vibe, as he had called it, but for a moment he imagined he could feel a faint air of impatience, as if someone, somewhere was shifting restlessly, waiting. Did Dean ever feel such things, Sam wondered, where did gut instinct end and precognition begin? Perhaps one day, he thought, he would ask.

Daylight filtered through the boarded and barred windows and the place looked even more desolate than it had earlier, Sam shook his head, and winced, this is where he had pulled a gun on his brother and so willing pulled the trigger, the last place he wanted to see again and as he started off down the hall he wondered if all his mistakes would come back so readily, so quickly. Well, of course, he thought grimly, they probably would.

The basement room where Dean has dispatched the esteemed Dr Ellicott was silent and empty. Sam stared at the ash stained floor, all that remained of the psychiatrist's second passing. Dean had been able to resist Dr Ellicott's alternative therapy long to save them both, but Sam had given in to his own anger so easily, he had revelled in the adrenaline rush of his rage, fuelled by all his petty, buried resentment.

God, Sam sank to his knees, was he that weak and vindictive, really that eager to show his big brother who was boss? Sam closed his eyes, and dropped his chin down his chest, he was the one who was pathetic, not Dean, not his brother who always looked out for him and had saved his sorry ass more times than he cared to count. Sam screwed his eyes tightly shut, but it didn't help much against the slow, hot seep of tears that were forced down his face.

He wasn't sure how long he knelt there, in the ashes of a long dead madman, his tears dropping to the floor, the room was quiet, but Sam knew before he opened his eyes that he was no longer alone.

They were all there, how many Sam wasn't sure, they stood encircling him, pales forms in ragged clothes, their hair wild, some with faces hidden in shadows, other with dead eyes fixed on him. Sam slowly scanned the room, many of the faces he could see were distorted, damaged in life by a man more interested in proving his brilliance to the world than trying to understand and help those already at a disadvantage.

Am I any different than Ellicot, Sam thought as he got to his feet, was he, or was he just one more egotist, thinking himself intellectually superior, better than others because of some preconcieved notions of what society considered normal. Perhaps, Sam told himself, here was a chance to put something right. He tried to ignore the cold flutter of fear that clenched his stomach, there was no going back now, if he had misunderstood there was no one to save his sorry ass this time and he hoped that Dean would be able to forgive him, eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Funeral Pyres

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Dean gritted his teeth, grimacing in pain as he sprayed his chest with the aerosol antiseptic that made up part of his rather extensive first aid pack, one of the many things his father had drummed into at an early age: Be prepared, not that Dean had every seen himself as a boy scout, now, Sammy of the other hand… At the thought of his brother Dean found himself slamming down the antiseptic onto the bathroom vanity where it wobbled for a moment before falling with a loud clatter on to the floor. It landed right behind the toilet.

"Shit", Dean yelled and then because it felt good, did it again. Stupid little punk-ass brothers, Dean stomped out of the bathroom, fighting the urge to kick something, there was nothing much in the motel room to take his anger out on, so he settled on grabbing Sam's backpack, left on a chair the previous night and flung it across the room, it narrowly missed the window and landed harmlessly on the floor. Dean sat on the bed, running his hands through his damp hair, what a freaking mess, he was angry and knew that Sam had taken off because he thought that his big mindless soldier of a brother was going to take a piece of his hide.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy" he muttered to himself "you are such a pain in the butt".

Sam was right, Dean was angry but he had assumed that Dean's anger was entirely caused by, and directed at him and however much Dean liked to make his brother squirm, that just wasn't the case.

Dean was angry, with Sam, with himself and not that he'd ever admit it to Sam or to the man himself, with his father. He was angry with Sam, for being Sam, for not changing in the years they'd been apart, for being the same innocent, puppy-eyed kid whose first word had been 'No', whose second word had been 'Why' and who then took the words 'stubborn' and 'headstrong' and made them all into his personal mantra.

He was mostly angry with himself for handing Sam an empty gun and telling him to pull the trigger and for the sickly feeling of triumph when Sam, with no hesitation, had pulled the trigger. What either of them thought they were proving, Dean didn't know and certainly didn't want to dwell on and Sam, at least, had the excuse of not being in his right mind. Dean wasn't stupid and while introspection wasn't high on his to-do list, Sam obviously wasn't the only Winchester with issues.

He was angry with John Winchester, and that was the hardest to deal with. Sam just didn't understand that when you were on the front line there was no time to question orders, you just did the best you could and maybe afterwards, when there was time to regroup, you could consider what might have been. Dean was angry with his father for not calling, especially after their little jaunt back to Lawrence and for not telling them, in his own words what he needed from them, but, for now, his loyalty to the man outweighed his anger. Dean was pretty sure that was something that Sam resolutely refused to acknowledge.

Adding to the mix of emotions that Dean wanted nothing more that to repress , deny and repress again, was the guilt about his jabs at Sam's apparent psychic abilities. He knew Sam was more than a little freaked by his dreams and even though nothing more than that had happened he knew that the little idiot was probably blaming himself for being vulnerable to Dr Nutjob's psychotic influence.

He sighed, what he needed, he decided was sleep, several prescription-strength painkillers and not to have talk about Roosevelt Asylum ever again. He grabbed his bag from the floor, pulled out some sweatpants and discarding his towel, pulled them on.

"Time for bed" he announced to the room "and drugs", he rooted around for the codeine tablets stashed in his bag's side pocket.

After pummelling the rather lumpy pillow for a few moments Dean settled down, he glanced at the red display of the clock beside the bed, 9:00 am, Sam had been gone for about an hour.

"S'okay Sammy, you can come back , I won't bite". Dean closed his eyes, Sam was probably holed up a coffee shop somewhere nearby, crying remorseful tears into his double shot, non-fat, vanilla, hold-the-foam latte.

Codeine had always worked well for Dean and even though the over-starched sheets rubbed uncomfortably against his chest he found himself drifting of to sleep confident that his brother would be snoring gently in the next bed when he awoke.


	3. Chapter 3

Funeral Pyres

Chapter 3

Dean, Sam thought, would probably have had some smart assed remark to fling at his silent audience. He didn't trust himself even to be able to speak, his throat felt dry and his muscles constricted.

He straightened up and as he did so, brushed up against an old gurney and sent in rattling across the floor . The grating noise seemed overly loud and shocking and his heart thumped painfully for one beat. The figures around him flickered briefly, but otherwise were unmoved.

Sam glanced around the room again, the voices that had compelled him to return to this dark and dank room were notably absent and he was suddenly worried that the last hour had been the unfortunate side-effect of Ellicott messing with his head.

No, he admonished himself. Trust your instincts, never second guess yourself. Recalling his father's words, so easily, surprised him. Sam shifted, stiffening his back and lifting his shoulders before he realised what he was doing. This, whether he liked it or not, was part of his world, he had seen things and done things other people couldn't possibly imagine and because of his father, done it well. He was sure Dean would appreciate the irony.

He rubbed a palm across his cheek, brushing away his tears.

There was a slight movement to his left and as he turned, the figure of what appeared to be a small, bony woman stepped away from the others and toward him. Before he could react the room was suddenly pitch black and a cold stabbing pain shot through his temple, Sam couldn't suppress the choked cry that forced itself from his mouth and as he grabbed at his head the room was again filled with dim light.

The slight figure stood only a foot or so before him, a grey emaciated arm raised, one finger outstretched. Sam knew that she had touched him and still rubbing his temple he watched the woman bring the finger to her face and focus her clouded eyes on its tip. It was wet. Slowly she trailed her finger from the corner of her eye down her cheek, her hand dropped to her side as she leaned forward.

Sam remembered his advice to Kat, and lowered his head. The whisper in his ear was all too familiar.

"Free us, Sammy" her voice was scratchy and distorted, but he understood well enough, and then the voices began again, filling the room and bouncing of the walls, it was like listening to a hundred tinny radios, all interrupted by static.

"Frr, Frr..eee. Us. Us. Sam, Sam, Sammy." The chant rolled through his head,

The noise quickly became overwhelming, bringing fresh tears to his eyess. Hissing and shrieking until Sam was pressing his hands against his ears, and then it was gone and he was alone again.

Sam blinked and wiped his eyes. He hadn't misunderstood the voice he had heard in the car and the motel. The souls of those who had lived and died under the tender care of Dr Ellicott were still trapped, caught in the decaying walls of what might have been a sanctuary to some and but had been a prison to others.

Sam frowned, turning to stare at the cabinet that had held the mortal remains of Ellicott and was now covered in a grimy layer of ash, it doors open, just as Dean has left it.

It was Ellicott's more recent victims that had brought them to Roosevelt, or, Sam thought bitterly, attracted the attention of his elusive father. Dispatching the late doctor's spirit had ensured that no one else would fall victim to his ministrations, but in the confusion and horror of their encounter, they had forgotten about his first victims.

They been waiting for something or someone to rid them of Ellicott for many more years that Sam had been alive, and although Ellicott could no longer torture them, it seemed that they were unable to move on. Sam felt uneasy, what had these spirits, some as tormented in life, as in death, seen in him?

Sam walked slowly around the room, looking for something that might help him understand why so many remained. It was getting hard for him to think clearly and a strong musty smell added to the unsettling and oppressive weight that seemed to be pressing between his shoulder blades. He suddenly felt very tired and alone.

He didn't know what he could do, on his own. It wasn't a situation that came up that often, if at all in, the Winchester family business. The voices had been impossible to ignore and the desire to get out of Dean's way had added to the pressure to return to the asylum.

Now, Sam realised, he needed to think, take a shower and eat. The Roosevelt inmates had waited a long time, they could wait a little more.

Time to leave, he decided, get back to the motel. Research, that thought was comforting, maybe look into Ellicott's experiments, perhaps, that was the key. Talk to Dean. Sam stopped, that was not such a comforting thought. Dean would have ideas, though, once Sam had explained, Dean would want to help and Sam would have a chance to make amends. The compulsion that had brought him to the hidden basement room was now replaced with an almost desperate need to leave.

He hurried along the corridor and bounded up the stairs two at a time. Ahead he could see the open doors and through the links of the fence, the Impala. He broke into a slow run, the weight on his back was getting heavier. The hairs along his neck and down his arms were raising against a chill damp in the air.

Sam knew a second or two before it happened, a slight vibration rolled up through the floor and he quickened his pace, but it was too late. The double doors rattled for an instant and then slammed shut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Funeral Pyres Chapter 4**

Dean blinked awake, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, he lifted his head from the pillow and squinted at clock. Damn, he flopped back down; he'd been asleep for just under an hour. It took him a couple of seconds to realise that he been disturbed by the muffled trilling of a cell phone, coming from somewhere in the room.

Where was the damn thing? Dean pulled himself from the bed, peeling the sheet from his chest, the stiff cotton sticking the raw grazes covering his flesh. It took him a few more seconds to locate his phone, still in his discarded jacket.

He flipped the cover and wasn't surprised to see Sam's number displayed. Dean hesitated, he wouldn't put it past his brother to try and fumble out some sort of long distance apology, probably fuelled by too much caffeine and guilt. His thumb hovered over 'End' button, one hour of sleep had done nothing to improve his mood and dealing with Sam's angst-ridden whining wasn't going to help it much either.

He stabbed at finger at the display.

"You know, Sammy, sometimes…' he was interrupted by a loud burst of static and after a brief silence, he heard his own name.

"Dean, I need …". Sam's voice was faint and almost immediately drowned out by the loud crackling.

"Sam, Sammy, what's going on?" Dean didn't bother to disguise the impatience in his voice, there was no reply from Sam and the noise on the line grew quieter. Through the static, Dean thought he could hear someone speaking, he couldn't make out the words at first, but he could sense a rhythm in the sound.

As he strained to listen, a few words broke through the noise and Dean was aware of a dull pain blossoming in his chest that had nothing to do with his recent injuries. He gripped the phone tightly and closed his eyes at the rasping, repetitive chant echoing through the phone.

"Ours now, ours now, ours ". The connection faded away. Dean snapped his phone shut. For a moment, he felt numb, unable to accept what the voices on the phone meant. Sam had returned to Roosevelt Asylum and was obviously in trouble. Again.

"Goddamit, Sam", Dean spun round, grabbing at his bag for fresh clothes. It was only when he was hopping across to the door, simultaneously trying to pull on his boots and jacket, that he remembered that Sam had taken the car.

"Son of a bitch" he yelled. Dean stopped when he realized that he was having trouble fastening his boots because his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath; he'd have an emotional meltdown later, after he hauled his little brother's ass back to where it belonged.

There were three cars, two trucks and battered RV in the motel parking lot. Dean stole the GM truck.

Sam stared at his cell phone in dismay, as it's comforting neon glow faded away. He supposed he should be grateful that Dean even answered, although the irritation in his voice had come across loud and clear.

Shoving the useless device back in his pocket, he leant forward on the doors once more. The doors didn't budge, but more than that, they didn't even creak or shift at all, with his hands pressed flat against the doors, Sam was sure he could feel a tiny thrum of energy dancing across the pitted surfaces. The same feeling was also snaking across his skin, down his back, prickling down his legs and crawling across his scalp. He feel the tingle of panic swelling in his gut and his heart was starting to beat faster.

He stumbled back from the doors, twisting around look down the hall, apparently still empty. Less than twelve hours ago it had been much the same story and hadn't that little escapade ended just fine and dandy.

"Keep calm, think, think" Sam muttered to himself, his breath condensing in the air and then whisper-soft, the words seemingly originating in the air around him, Sam heard another voice.

"Stay, Sammy. Stay"

Fight or flight, Sam had been raised to respond the that first impulse without hesitation. John Winchester would be sorely disappointed, Sam reflected, as he raced down the gloomy corridor, sidestepping and leaping over whatever blocked his path.

Skidding around a corner he spotted a narrow staircase leading up. The building, Sam knew, had three floors, as well as the basement. Getting as far away from there as possible seemed like a reasonable idea.

Six short flights of steps led him to the top floor, the stairs ending at a large square landing. Most of the doors onto the landing were open and Sam could see that the rooms beyond were filled with what appeared to be old office furniture; desks and filing cabinets and, spilling in through dirty but uncovered windows, daylight.

Sam knees were suddenly weak with relief. Peering around he noticed the doors bore name plates. The one directly opposite the stairs read "Dr P. Ellicott".

The office was remarkably intact, the grey, dusty metal furniture still in fairly good condition, a few uncomfortable looking chairs lined the walls and yellowed papers and folders were piled haphazardly in corners. An old-fashioned black bakelite telephone, wires frayed, stood on the desk. Sam moved to the window and rubbed his sleeve across the glass.

Damn, bars on the outside, Sam's shoulders slumped. It made sense, he realised, the windows opened inward for ventilation, but even in the administrative section of a psychiatric hospital where patients were probably never allowed, there were going to be such precautions.

At least, he reassured himself, it felt different here, away from the lower floors. The tension in his body had lessened and the stale air around him was warm and still.

He slid down the wall and sat, legs crossed, and concentrated on calming his breathing. Ellicott's office, was quiet, but in the distance, where the highway skirted around the grounds of the hospital, Sam could hear the steady rumble of traffic. The noise of normal suburban life was a useful focus and after a few minutes, he began to relax a little. Hiding away from the rest of the building and hopefully, it's inhabitants much of a plan long term, but it gave Sam the space to think.

"Maybe." Sam pulled out his cell phone. It's display was still blank, he pushed the power button, the phone beeped and lit up. Thank God, he took a shaky breath.

Dean answered immediately.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Sam winced. "Hi to you too, Dean. Look, I know this sounds insane but I'm at the ."

Dean cut him off, "Yeah, yeah, Sammy, you're back at the nut house, and let me guess, you're up in it to your scrawny neck, again. Which, by the way, I'm going to wring, as soon as I get there"

"You're on your way here, now?" Sam tried to contain his relief. " How?"

"Never you mind. And, perhaps you'd like to fill me in, unless you're too busy"

Sam didn't think that Dean wanted to hear about how the overpowering effect of the voices mixed with his guilt and frustrations about shooting his brother had sent him blindly running back to the asylum.

"It seems that the spirits we met here, earlier have," Sam paused, searching for the right words, "some sort of connection with me. I, I thought they wanted my help, but now I'm not so sure. They've blocked the door. I can feel them, Dean, I can feel them, all over me". Sam voice shook.

" Why, no scrub that, where are you now, Sam" Dean reply was brusque.

"Hiding out on the third floor, they don't seem to be able to come up here. There are offices up here" Sam glanced around the room. " I'm actually in Ellicott's office right now"

"You're what?" Dean bellowed down the telephone. "Jesus, Sammy. I thought you were smart. Find somewhere else to hide, now." Sam flinched as the rest of Dean's words were drowned out by a loud harsh ringing.

The sound was coming from the telephone on the desk.

As the cell phone in his hand fizzled out, Dean pressed down on the gas pedal, he was about five minutes away from the asylum, too far. The truck rattled alarmingly as it hit a large pothole and the rock-hard suspension did nothing for the pain in his chest.

Could this day get any worse, Dean wondered, and realised it was probably best not to tempt fate.

Up ahead he could see the railway crossing that was opposite the east entrance to the hospital grounds, that road had long ago been blocked by large concrete blocks. The south entrance, which they had used earlier was another mile or so down the highway.

Dean swung the truck up the single lane road of the east entrance. Stealing a truck with four wheel drive had it's advantages.

Pulling wide of the barricade Dean ploughed into the scrubby undergrowth that surrounded the buildings Roosevelt Hospital and aimed the truck at the main building. He couldn't see the Impala.

The truck bumped and bucked across the ground, it dipped suddenly into a small hollow and shuddered to an abrupt stop. Without wasting time or breath Dean killed the engine and leapt from the drivers seat. It was only a few hundred yards and rounding the corner to the main entrance he almost ran into the car. He stopped and rested his hands on the hood, catching his breath, his bruised chest heaving painfully.

The gates were open and one was swinging gently back and forth. The air was still and there was no wind. Dean straightened up, the place was apparently deserted. Passing through gates, he slowly approached the doors. Sam had been certain they were blocked, but like the gates, one stood slightly ajar.

"Sam, Sam. It's me, Dean. Sam." Without touching door, Dean called through the narrow opening. He cocked his head, listening intently, nothing, but then he thought he heard a faint cry. It was enough. He pulled the door open and stepped back into the asylum.

Inside there was no sign of Sam. Dean walked a few paces along the corridor. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck and the air became colder, and although Dean was all for ignoring it, there was a tension in the air. Was this what Sam had felt back in the house in Lawrence? It made Dean feel off-balance.

"Sam, Sammy. Get your butt down here" He tried again. No sound echoed back from along the halls, but the air around felt even colder and bit into his skin.

"Ours" a reply hissed from somewhere behind him, Dean spun around, a great weight slammed into his back and he crashed down onto the floor. He last coherent thought was that little brothers were more trouble than they were worth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Funeral Pyres Chapter 5**

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_A/N: This chapter took a little longer because I've been lingering noisily at death's door with the mother of all colds. Splutter, cough etc, etc._

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Sam kept his gaze fixed on the ringing telephone as he backed slowly from the office. It had crossed his mind to answer it, but discretion really did seem to be the better part of valour this time. As he passed the door of the office and once again stood on the large landing, the ringing stopped. Sam found himself glancing around, back and forth, his muscles bunched in expectation, of what he didn't know. He did know that Roosevelt Asylum hadn't finished with him yet.

He paused at the top of stairs, unsure of his next course of action, Dean had told him to find somewhere else to hide. The offices were brighter and less forbidding than the lower floor, but obviously not invulnerable to the spirits that were so attracted to him.

Sam gripped the stair rail, Dean was coming, that thought alone filled him with an uplifting surge of determination. Sure, Dean was probably even more pissed than before, but anything was better than the feelings of despair and emptiness that had flowed through him, back in the basement.

Sam realised that it was more than just his own guilt fuelling his confused emotions and actions. The late residents of the asylum had tapped into the damage done by Ellicott and had taken advantage of his emotional turmoil and, Sam bit his lip, not wanting to admit the obvious even to himself, the whole psychic deal.

The question of why, still remained, what did they want? Sam knew it was time to find out. He stepped down onto the stairs and drifting up the stairwell he heard a voice.

Dean, it was Dean. He all but threw himself down to the first landing, and leaning over the rail, yelled as loudly as he could.

"Dean, yo, Dean".

Without waiting for a reply he raced down the stairs, a few seconds later he landed breathlessly at the bottom , catching his breath he thought he heard another 'Sammy' reverberate along the corridor. He took off at a slow jog, around the corner and down the darkened hallway.

His feelings of optimism were starting to wane a little as he got closer to the main entrance. He was surprised not to meet Dean coming the other way, he tried calling him again. No answer. Sam slowed to a cautious walk as he approached to doors, still shut tight and with no Dean to be seen.

He swung around helplessly, panic again stabbing at his heart. Had this been another trick? Like the telephone, luring him back to where they wanted him.

"Dean, Dean". His voice was getting hoarse, there was a slight crunch under his foot. Sam glanced down, expecting to see some ancient piece of hospital equipment, but the dull silvery sheen peeking from beneath his foot looked too new and too modern.

Sam bent down and as his fingers closed around it , his initial relief soured quickly into fear. It was Dean's cell phone. Sam wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Dean had been there, had come for him, made it all the way back into the building he had every reason in the world never to even want to see again. Sam gripped the phone tightly against his chest, trying to control himself.

This time he knew they were there before he felt the cool breeze that ruffled his hair and the press of icy fingers down his spine. Sam's control snapped. Everything around him became muffled and indistinct. He was running again, screaming. He couldn't hear his own voice but he knew his was screaming his brother's name, over and over.

Nothing barred his way. He blundered along halls and through rooms, colliding with hard edges and smacking into the walls. Doors opened with a single kick, anything big enough to block his way was smashed to the side. Nothing stirred, no one answered his increasingly hysterical calls.

The door in front of him was larger and more solidly built than the others he encountered, he continued to pound on it, his knuckles already bruised and bleeding.

Sam raised his fist to strike at the door before him again, his arm shook and the pain radiating down his arm made him stop, mid swing and take a few deep breaths. The world around him eventually shifted back into focus and Sam, exhausted and bloodied dropped onto the floor. He closed his eyes, too drained to cry and too tired to care.

He failed Dean, failed himself and apparently gone insane. Pushing himself up, Sam sat on the floor and looked around him. He vaguely remembered rushing up the stairs again, but was uncertain as to where he was. He looked up, a small sign, hanging by one corner read, 'Isolation Ward'. That explained the impressively solid door.

Sam flexed his painful and swollen hands, if Dean was wandering around and free to respond he would most certainly have heard Sam's wild screaming and frenzied charge through the building.

Sam hung his head, there was only one option open to him and delaying the inevitable could be endangering his brother.

Preferring to face the music on his feet, Sam pulled himself up. He stood still and closed his eyes.

"Okay, guys, come and get me" he spoke softly and willed himself to relax, rolling his shoulders to loosen his muscles.

Almost immediately the air temperature dropped and an almost imperceptible sigh blew across the room. Sam, his eyes still closed, concentrated on quelling the ever present knot of fear in his stomach. Dean needed him.

Sam opened his eyes, and blinked in surprise. He had been prepared to see himself surrounded, but only the slight figure of the woman who had approached him in the basement, stood before him.

She cocked her head at him and fixed him with an empty stare.

"Come to us, child"

Sam licked his lips. "What do you want from me?" . The woman's form flickered and she raised both arms to him.

"Come to us, be us, free us". The whispers rolled around the room and Sam took an involuntary step backward.

"I'll come with you. If you let my brother go" Sam tried to keep his voice steady, still unsure of what was expected of him.

The woman gave a slow nod and Sam heard a click behind him and turned to see the door to the isolation ward swing open by an inch or so.

"No".

Sam stopped as he reached for the door, letting his arm drop.

"Come with us, now". The voice was hard and deeper in tone, and a sudden pain flared behind Sam's eyes. Before he realised what he was doing, Sam was stumbling toward the stairs, headed for the basement and praying that Dean would be able to escape from the hellhole that was the Roosevelt Asylum.


	6. Chapter 6

**Funeral Pyres …………..Chapter 6**

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Dean grunted, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. He vaguely remembered that his chest was supposed to hurt, but it seemed unfair that his face also felt as if it were squashed up against something hard and unyielding. He tried turning his head, finding it difficult to breathe as his nose flattened out.

Not a mattress then, he decided. Which was a pity, really, because laying face down, spread eagled on a mattress would have meant that his day, already off to a spectacularly bad start, had not gone totally to hell.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head. He was lying in a small square room, lit only by one tiny window, high in the wall in front of him. The room was completely empty, the air dank and heavy with the stench of decay. Dull green paint was peeling of the walls, curled flakes lay in piles around the edge of the room, cracked and yellowed linoleum covered the floor, some spots worn through to the floorboards . Dean sat up, gingerly rubbing his nose, everything ached.

"Wonderful, a freakin' cell." Dean cursed, he squinted in the low light, focusing on the door, a few feet in front of him. It might not have been a prison door but it's function was much the same. No lock mechanism accessible, no hinges on the inside, reinforced with metal strips and a small spy hole that could only be opened from the outside.

Dean could only guess at the state of mind of the room's previous occupants. The thought made his skin crawl and he was unable to suppress the horrible suspicion that something had dumped him in the room with every intention of leaving him to rot.

He got to his feet, one hand to the wall as he wobbled slightly. His fingers brushed against several deep scratches that cut into the plastered surface. Here and there were scattered faint brown stains, splashes that occasionally had run down to the floor. Dean snatched his hand away from the wall. The door was solid, he pushed and prodded, ramming his shoulder hard against it, his feet scrabbling over the tacky surface of the old floor, but it was clear that it would take more that he was physically capable of, to move it.

The small window was barred, not that anyone could ever have reached it or squeezed though it. The walls and floor were intact. Dean sat down again. He tried to think of any previous situations where he'd been so thoroughly and completely screwed, nothing came immediately to mind.

Dean took a deep breath. Sam. There was only one way out and Sam was it. Wherever Sam was and whatever he was doing. The whole thing was just so stupid, Dean thought angrily. Perhaps he'd been too harsh. Sam could be as uncommunicative as the next guy, and others times, Dean realised, he would babble on endlessly, until Dean would tell him to shut up. Maybe he should have let Sam have his say, apologize, whine for forgiveness and then they'd both be tucked up, safe and sound, not back at psycho central. Dean shivered.

Dean didn't have much time for the whole foxhole religion thing, offering up bargains to some God, you normally had no time for. However, there were always execeptions to every rule.

"Okay, God, get me out of this and I promise I won't kick Sam's ass that hard." Dean raised his eyes upward, only the dirty ceiling and a broken light fixture looked back.

A sudden thought hit him.

"Shit, you idiot." Dean rummaged in his pockets, desperately patting himself down. His phone was gone.

"Assholes." Dean shouted at the door, and for a second Dean thought the door shouted back. Dean leapt up and pressed his ear to the door. A few seconds later and he was sure he could hear someone crying out. Dean. Someone was screaming his name.

"Sam. Sammy." Dean dropped to his knees and bent his head to the bottom of door to shout his reply, hoping the sound would reach through the tiny gap. He called again and was sure that he heard a distant knocking sound.

He shuffled back from the door and waited. Nothing. The noises had stopped.

Dean hunched in on himself. The anger that had been with him since first leaving the asylum had completely dissipated. He was afraid and he didn't much like it . Sam was somewhere out there, on his own, frightened and desperate. Knowing that his brother was looking for him, screaming for him, made Dean sick to his stomach, every 'worst case' scenario running through his mind. This was going to end badly, he just knew it.

A soft creaking sound made him look up. It was coming from the door, the noise came again, this time a little louder. Dean stared and then flung himself across the room as the door groaned slowly open. The door wasn't even truly open, it surface just free of the frame, as Dean jammed his fingers behind the catch and wrenched it free, throwing himself into the space beyond.

He found himself in a long hallway, lined with identical doors, there must have been twenty or so. At one end was a blank wall, at the other, a few doors from him, was another large door, designed, like the others, to keep people in; it was open. Dean didn't stop to think.

Once on the other side, Dean allowed himself to slump down, his back pressed against the door, he was careful not to push it shut. The door led onto a large landing, stairs opposite, leading downward. The number '2' was painted on the wall. Dean scanned the area carefully, if it had been Sam who he had heard, then he must have been nearby. Dean knew it was probably too much to ask that Sam had left some clue or sign as to his whereabouts.

His palm flat to the door, Dean pushed himself up. His hand came away sticky. He raised his hand for closer inspection. Blood, his hand was smeared with fresh blood. For a moment he was sure that he had cut himself. He glanced at the door, and his heart began to beat faster. Dots of red marked the door, and in the middle, at least one discernable hand print. Someone had been pounding at the door with their bare knuckles.

"Sammy." Dean breathed out, unable to tear his gaze away from abstract patterns of his brother's blood. Had Sam known? Had he been trying to reach him?

Dean wheeled about, abruptly, wiping his fingers down his jeans. He was tempted to call out for Sam, but something was telling him that it would do no good. He'd been knocked down, dragged about and locked up and now after hearing his brother's frightened calls, he'd been released.

'Ours', the voices had been fairly adamant about that, Dean thought, they wanted Sam, they didn't want Dean. He'd been effectively removed from the proceedings, with no chance at escape and then, just let go? It made no sense. Ghosts weren't know for their logic, but experience had taught him that there was almost always a purpose to their actions.

Turning these thoughts slowly around in his head, Dean went to the top of the stairs and peered down. Smudges of blood were visible on the walls and hand rail. Dean couldn't be sure if it was deliberate, but Sam had left a trail. Dean started down the stairs. By the time he reached the ground floor the bloodied prints were few and fainter, in the half light, though, Dean was sure he could see a couple of fingerprints on the wall turning away from the main entrance and deeper into the building.

Dean trod softly along the passage, so far nobody had tapped him on the shoulder or whispered not-so-sweet nothings into his ear and an unpleasant picture was beginning to form as the pieces came together in his mind. He wasn't being warned off, because now there was no need. Because they had what they wanted. They'd let him go, because they had what they wanted.

The inevitable conclusion was one that made Dean grit his teeth. If Sam had known Dean was trapped, it was all too likely that he been a complete imbecile and acted accordingly.

Dean decided he was going to renege on his hasty promise and kick Sammy's ass as hard as he possibly could. Standing at the top of the basement stairs confirmed Dean's fears, on the top step was a cell phone, his cell phone. On the top corner was a small speck of blood. Dean stuck it back in his pocket, what was so goddamn important about that basement?

It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, not following Sam's footsteps back down to the basement. Dean knew he couldn't face whatever was down there empty handed. The Impala and her loaded trunk were only a couple of hundred feet away.

"Hold on Sammy, I'm coming." Dean whispered and set of back to the entrance, running. The double doors opened easily, Dean grabbed a large rusty canister from just inside the door and forced it between them. The gates he pushed open as wide as they would go.

"Yeah, baby.' Dean greeted his car and heaved opened the trunk, grabbing the old canvas bag that sat on the top shelf. The gates and the doors remained open. Dean left them like that. Still nothing disturbed his guarded progress back into the asylum, and he wondered uneasily what could be distracting them. There was only one answer to that question, and it had better have a damn good reason for dragging Dean from his bed. Dean stepped down into the gloomy stairwell, the heavy bag banging pulling at his shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 **………………………**Funeral Pyres**

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_Many thanks for the kind reviews, they certainly help with the motivation._

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Sam staggered, falling off the last step and landing on his knees. The pale figure leading him downward had faded away by the time he reached the main floor, but his final destination had never been in any doubt. He was back in the basement.

The pain stabbing at his head was now almost unbearable. Tears streamed from his eyes, and unable to stand, he only option was to crawl across the floor. No longer just a fleeting sensation that prickled against his skin, the icy cold pressure of many unseen hands were pushing at him. Prodding him forward, tugging at his clothes, impatient at his unsteady progress. He shuffled slowly forward, unsure of the right direction.

He was too weak to fight the forces guiding him, not that it mattered, he had to finish this. Unidentified debris dug into his legs and fingers, grit and dirt mixing with the blood that covered his hands.

At last, the pulling stopped and the weight rolled from him. Sam collapsed face down onto the floor. Something dug painfully into his cheek, rousing him and blinking his eyes he could see he was back in Ellicott's private laboratory.

Mustering what little energy he had, Sam rolled over onto his back, curling his battered hands onto his chest and waited. He was too exhausted to be afraid, not trying to control his involuntary shivering, the damp from the floor soaking into his clothes. He wondered if whatever was going to happen and whatever he was expected to do, would be quick. He wanted the pain to stop.

It was impossible to concentrate on anything with his nerves screaming and his head pounding. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to summon up an image of his brother. All he could manage was the memory of Dean looking up at him, from the very floor Sam now lay on, a gun in his face. Sam still didn't understand why Dean had handed him the empty gun, but then, nothing that happened within the walls of Roosevelt Asylum made any sense. From the tiles on the roof to the cornerstone of the foundations, the building was soaked with madness and despair.

"I'm sorry, man, I really am. I'm gonna miss you." Sam whispered to himself. Dean was okay, he had to be, Sam could do nothing more. The only regret that came to mind was that he was going to miss the opportunity to tell his father exactly what he thought about his careless use of text messages.

He opened his eyes and looked around. At the edge of his field of vision something flickered. Dark shapes danced across the room. The figures he had seen before shimmered in and out of the shadows, each one with arms outstretched, their mouths open in silent pleas.

A low whisper arose from the darkened corners and curled around the room.

"Show us Sam. Show us the way."

Sam raised his head slightly.

"I don't understand. How. What do you want me to do?" He pleaded.

"Free us Sam. Come with us." The voices replied and the forms around him were static for a moment and then sputtered out of focus once more.

Sam dropped his head back down. What was he supposed to do? Show them the light, encourage them to cross over? Did that really work? Burn and salt, God knows, how many bones. Even if he knew where the remains were. Hospital grounds, private cemeteries, it was doubtful if there were any records with such information left.

It was a joke, a bad joke of cosmic proportions and Sam had certainly been the fool.

"I can't do this. You don't need me." Sam paused. "Let go, let go of this place. Ellicott's gone." It was worth a shot, he thought.

The room was quiet and as Sam looked up, a shadow stretched out across the ceiling. A dark mass was slowly building in the air above him. Like a storm cloud billowing outward, it pulsed, matching the rhythm of his heart. Sam watched, transfixed, as formless shapes coalesced into human faces, eyes empty, and melted away again. The cloud expanded across the room, filling the space, so it hung only two or three feet above him and as it blossomed outward so did his pain. He screwed his eyes shut against the driving agony that spiked through his temples. This time the voice he heard came from within, echoing around his head.

"You are chosen. You know the ways. Show us."

Sam's hands fisted and fell to his sides, his body arching of the ground and he screamed. Something twisted in his chest and he felt as if the top of his head was lifting off; his mind filled with images and feelings that were not his own.

His whole body shook, waves of intense emotions flooded his mind. Pain, terror, wild euphoria, the feelings were too strong and came too quickly. He was being smothered by the memories and feelings of Ellicott's victims. People cast aside because of their insanity. Death had not released them from their prison and their distorted perceptions remained.

Sam had no defence against them. He was coming apart at the seams, his mind and body spiralling away. His own sanity was being shredded, pulled by a force that was tearing him inside-out.

They were wrong. He didn't know the way, they were trapped and he would be too.

The darkness swirled around him, it caught in his throat and coated his skin. Cries of desperation rang across the room. They knew. Even in their turmoil, they realised that Sam couldn't help them, not like this, but it was too late. Sam was falling deeper and deeper, he could no longer feel the wet floor beneath him, or the sharp pain of the wounds on his hands. He was being consumed, fighting to breathe Sam let out one last cry before succumbing to the darkness.

"Dean."


	8. Chapter 8

**Funeral Pyres**

**Chapter 8**

**S s S s S**

Dean was half-way down the stairs when he heard it. A loud scream cut through the air, echoing along the walls beneath him. A very human scream. He froze, his hands clenching at the straps digging into his shoulder. It didn't require any imagination to hear the sharp underscoring of pain that accompanied the sound.

His stupid, stubborn, little brother was screaming in agony.

Now was not the time for subtlety or stealth, Dean charged down the rest of the steps and into the corridor only becoming aware, after a few seconds, that he was yelling incoherently as he ran.

He recognised the door that led to his earlier encounter with Ellicott and not slowing his pace, hurled himself into the room. It was almost, but not quite, like hitting a brick wall.

Dean stopped, dead in his tracks and staggered back slightly, his bag sliding of his shoulder and hitting the ground noisily. The impact was more than just a physical sensation, for a moment his perception of his surroundings dulled and a surge of palpable energy swept through his body. Dean pressed his hand against his chest, an unconscious reaction to the sudden stab of jagged misery that cut to his very core.

Something had happened here. Dean didn't need any fancy psychic powers to know that. The atmosphere was thick with it, like the aftermath of a car crash, when the road is littered with broken metal and the air full of oil and smoke.

Dean shook his head, in an attempt to clear his mind from the unsettling images and feelings that skittered around it.

The place was empty; there was no sign of Sam. Dean blinked, unsure if he was imagining things; it was getting darker, a heavy mist condensing around the room. He took a tentative step forward. It was like trying to walk through molasses.

A slight sound made him pause and then a low rough cry.

"Dean."

It came from across the room, filtering through the broken boards that had concealed Ellicott's nasty little secret hideaway.

Dean couldn't move fast enough.

Sam lay on the floor, his head thrown back, limbs trembling, his body shaking with convulsions. Dean skidded to his knees along the floor, reaching for his brother. Sam's eyelids were half-open, his eyes rolled back in his head and blood flowed freely from his nose. Dean could hear his stuttered breaths as the muscles of his airways contracted.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dean knew that there were probably certain protocols to follow when a person was having a seizure. He didn't care. He pulled Sam into his arms, cradling his head in the crook of his elbow. Sam's body jittered for a few seconds and Dean held him tightly against his chest, trying to contain the erratic movements. Gradually, Sam stilled and Dean held his hand to Sam's neck, lowering his head to listen for breathing.

The first flutterings of panic were starting to rise in his chest when he felt the sluggish beat of Sam's pulse against his fingers, too long a pause, and then another. Dean spread his hand wide and pressed it against Sam's ribs, waiting for the gentle rise that would let him know that his brother was breathing. It didn't come, nor was there the whisper of air on his face, Sam's mouth was slack and still beneath Dean's cheek, blood from his nose running across his lips and dripping down his neck.

"Sammy." Dean choked, swiping his sleeve across Sam's mouth in a futile effort to clean away some of the blood. He lowered Sam's head back to the floor, tipping it back, pulling forward on his chin, his fingers slipping across his brother's bloody skin.

Pinching at the bridge of Sam's nose Dean covered his brother's mouth with his own, breathing into the unresponsive body.

Release, breathe, release, breathe.

"Don't do this, Sammy, not now." Dean whispered as he sat back, checking his brother's reaction. Still nothing, Dean leant over once more, the warm, acrid taste of blood stinging his lips and tongue.

Come on, come on, Dean chanted silently. He had wasted too much time running to the car. He'd been expecting to meet with an unfriendly reception, expecting to find Sam in the thrall of yet another paranormal adversary, unable to keep it's mitts off the youngest Winchester.

But not this, not his brother, alone, convulsing on a wet floor, battered and bleeding. Dying.

Sam's skin was cool under his touch; the blood ebbing from his nose had stopped. Dean closed his eyes, unable to look at the white skin and crimson streaks. He breathed for his brother, again, keeping his hands on Sam's face, unwilling to rub at the itchy pinprick of tears in his own eyes.

"Please, Sammy. Come on, man." Dean rested his forehead against his brother's, counting down for the next breath.

Sam's head moved against his, a wet gurgling sound coming from his throat. Shaking with relief, Dean sat back on his heels, cupping Sam's face with his hands, pulling it forward. Sam shuddered and gagged, choking on his own blood.

"Shit, sorry, Sam." Dean voice cracked as he pulled Sam into a sitting position and back into his arms.

"Yeah, that's it, big breath." Dean pulled at the front corner of his shirt, stretching it to wipe at Sam's face. Sam raspy breathing was laboured and regular, but with his eyes still closed and muscles lax, he gave no indication that he aware of Dean's presence.

"Jesus, Sam, you should see yourself. It ain't pretty." Dean tried to keep his voice level. "Come on, bro, why don't you open those squinty little eyes of yours and tell me what the hell's going on."

Sam shifted slightly, rolling his head into Dean's chest. His eyelids twitched and cracked open, he stared straight up, past Dean, his eyes unfocused.

"Wrong. Didn't know." His voice was scratchy and low, that Dean, even so close, only just caught the words. Sam's eyes closed and he slumped back into Dean's arms.

"What's wrong? What didn't you know?" Dean raised his voice, rubbing gently at Sam's shoulder. Sam remained silent. The dense mist hanging in the air was beginning to thin and Dean wondered whether he should let Sam come to, in his own time or haul his ass up and out before something else decided to pop by and say hello.

"Well," Dean addressed his immediate surroundings, "this is nice. Thanks for half-killing my little brother, you ungrateful fuckers."

A shadow loomed up from the far corner and small dark specks flickered in the air.

I really should learn to keep my fat mouth shut, Dean thought unhappily, tightening his grip around his brother.

The flickering darks spots solidified and the small figure of a woman appeared before him. She gazed at him, although it was too dark for Dean to make out her features. She bowed her head to him.

"No harm, meant no harm." The whisper floated across the room.

"No harm. Oh, fine, glad we've got that cleared up. So what did you do to him, then?" Dean was shouting by the time he finished.

The spirit was silent, slowly she raised her head and took a step towards them, reaching out her hand, she pointed down. Dean's gaze followed. Sam's eyes were moving beneath his lids, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"He walks in shadows. He knows the dark." Before Dean could react, the figure disappeared and he was left staring at the empty room.

"Damn." Dean muttered.

Sam groaned quietly in reply, his muscles tensing against Dean's hold on him. Dean felt himself grinning in relief as Sam, rather slowly, opened his eyes. Dean could see it was a struggle for him as Sam blinked blearily for a while, before eventually focusing on Dean's face.

Sam swallowed, grimacing at the taste of his own blood.

"Why." He could barely croak out the word. Dean watched as Sam pursed his lips and tried again.

"Why are you here?" His voice, a little firmer. He made no effort to move and lay there, blinking up at Dean.

Dean looked back in amazement, thoughts of ass-kicking and stupid kid brothers, swirling around his head. This was the very spot the angry little punk had emptied two barrels of rock salt into his chest. He frowned, Sam's skin was still deathly pale and the blood smeared across his face had begun to dry, suddenly everything else seemed incredibly unimportant.

"Because, Sammy, that's what I do." Dean leered down at his brother and patted him gently on the cheek. "Come on. Time to check out of the nuthouse and clean you up." Dean smiled and pulled Sam up, so he could sit up by himself. Grunting, he stood up; he stretched, arching his back. "God, what a day."

Sam sat where Dean left him, making no attempt to move.

"This isn't finished, Dean." Sam kept his head down and Dean only just heard the words.

"What? You're kidding, right? Have you seen yourself? You're a mess. Let's go." Dean stuck out a hand, wiggling it impatiently.

"No, I need to finish this." Sam looked at his brother. Dean had learnt, long ago, that he had little defence against that particular wide-eyed, mulish expression. He sighed.

"Whatever. But the first sign of any more trouble and we're gone. Okay." Dean crouched down, resting his hand on Sam's shoulder.

Sam gave him a weak smile, tilting his head.

"I think I remember something. Well, not me, per se. Them." Sam gestured at the empty room. "I think I know why they keep coming back here."

Dean nodded. Sam was right, they needed to finish this, for both their sakes, and Dean had his own ideas about what was right for Roosevelt Asylum.


	9. Chapter 9

**Funeral Pyres**

**Chapter 9**

**S s S s S**

Sam rested his head on his knees, listening to Dean cross the room to retrieve the bag he had apparently dropped.

He felt so weak, he wasn't sure if he could even stand, but coming to and finding himself clutched in his brother's arms had made him determined to put all at the asylum to rest.

He hadn't expected to ever see his brother again and the knowledge that Dean had pulled him from the gaping black hole into which he'd been dragged gave him a confidence in himself that had been sadly lacking in the last few hours.

With a loud clatter Dean returned, dropping the bag onto the floor and crouching down to rummage through its contents. Sam turned his head and watched him.

"You're completely predictable, you know that." Sam said quietly.

Dean glanced up at him, and snorted. "Until you can explain just what in the hell you thought you were doing, running off like a teenage girl in a snit, you can keep it zipped."

Dean pulled out a small can and deliberately placed in on the floor, eyeing it with a certain air of satisfaction.

The words were said lightly and Sam hid his face against his knees, trying to smother the grin that pulled painfully at the aching muscles around his mouth.

"Hey Sam, oh shit." Dean was at his side, one hand cupping Sam's neck. "I didn't mean, damn. Come on Sammy, we'll talk about this later. We've gotta sort out this mess first."

Sam looked up, not bothering to hide his amusement and relief at his brother's words. "You know, it's kind of unnerving when you're nice to me."

"Asshole." Dean squeezed Sam's neck gently. "Remind me next time, when I'm saving your life. Again."

"Dean, I.." Sam stopped as Dean held up a hand.

"I thought you wanted to finish this." Dean gestured at the bag. "Now."

Sam sighed, lifting his head and looked carefully around the room. It was much the same as when they had first arrived. Nothing seemed out of place. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his knees. Although his body ached and his head was still fuzzy, he was conscious that something had changed. Even in the half light, he was sure he could now see more clearly. Objects appeared in sharper focus, the contrast between the shadows clearer. Texture and color seemed more defined. He could almost hear the slight crackle of energy in the air.

Sam closed his eyes, maybe it was just his imagination, his mind still reeling from the overwhelming assault, but he could feel gentle whispers of air against his skin, the restless passage of the ghosts of Roosevelt Asylum, drifting unseen in the atmosphere. He had been ripped open, a gaping wound in his psyche and at some fundamental level his awareness had been altered. Sam wondered if such wounds were ever able to fully heal.

He glanced up at Dean. His brother was staring at him. Sam turned away, uncomfortable at his own train of thought, there was no way he was going to share that particular mind-set with Dean.

"So," Dean drawled, "who's up for a little shake 'n' bake?" He waggled the can of accelerant in Sam's direction.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not every problem can be solved by burning it to a crisp."

"S'worked for me so far and I didn't hear any complaints earlier." Dean kicked at the metal cabinet where he had found Ellicott's remains.

Sam stretched out his legs in front of him and leaned back.

"Look around, Dean. This is a three storey building, don't you think someone might notice, if we burn it to the ground. Anyway," Sam paused, as the gruesome memories he had witnessed surfaced briefly, "there may be a less extreme solution."

"What's wrong with extreme, I like extreme." Dean grumbled. "And, what, precisely is the problem? Apart from the fact that this place seems to have a fondness for fucking you over." He stepped over the where Sam sat, bending down to grab his arm.

Sam looked up, meeting Dean's eyes.

"Ellicott's victims, his first victims, have the right to find peace. Whatever they were, or became, no one deserves being stuck in this place for an eternity."

Dean's fingers dug into his arm. "For fuck's sake, Sammy, they almost took you with them."

"I know, but look at what I did," Sam faltered. "What I tried to do to you. Do you blame me?"

Dean held his gaze for a few seconds. "No."

The sense of relief was intense and immediate, Sam tried to speak but the words stuck in his throat.

Dean smiled.

"Come on, show me what you've got." He pulled Sam to his feet. Sam swayed and leaned into his brother, the room spun for a moment and small blue sparks flashed at the edge of his vision.

"You gonna make it?" Dean gripped him around his waist.

Sam nodded and pushed himself from the shelter of Dean's grasp.

"You remember what you said about Ellicott's logbook and his experimental procedures?" Sam tilted his head, squinting as he scanned the walls.

"Yeah, so what? We know what he did. We can't undo it. If burning the bastard didn't do the trick, what will? If we torch this place, then, at least, there's nowhere left to haunt. Personally, I find the logic appealing." Dean followed Sam's gaze. "You looking for something in particular?"

"I think Ellicott left more than his logbook behind, and it's my guess it's hidden around here somewhere."

"And you know this, how?"

Sam pulled a face. "You really don't want to know"

Dean's reply was quiet. "Oh, I doubt that, Sammy."

He moved away from Sam, across the room, pushing away the moldy drapes that shrouded the far corner. The outline of a narrow door was just visible in the shadows.

"Double locked, I wonder why that would be." Dean rattled the handle, the door held firm and before Sam could say anything Dean lifted his knee and kicked the door, hard.

It popped open. The space beyond was pitch black.

Dean smirked at Sam. "Grab a flashlight, Sammyboy. Let's see what Dr Ellicott's been hiding."

Sam had a very good idea of what Ellicott had been hiding. Tossing a light at Dean, he stood back letting his brother step gingerly across the threshold, into the darkened room.

Dean snapped on the flashlight, swinging the thin beam around him. The room appeared to be long and narrow, not much more than an extended storage room. Tall metal shelves lined the windowless walls. A large grey filing cabinet stood at the end of the room. The pale yellow light bounced off the walls and reflected off the many dusty glass jars, stacked several deep on the shelves.

Sam heard Dean suck in a large breath. "Jesus. Is that what I think it is?"

The light glinted of the large storage jars, illuminating the cloudy liquid contained in most of them. Some of the contents were impossible to identify. Others, it was all too easy to guess.

"He kept. He, he kept the bits, I mean, that's just gross." Dean spluttered, turning away from Dr Ellicott's private collection. "I suppose it makes sense, in a way, his patients haven't moved on, because lumps of their…" He waved a hand in the air.

"Brains." Sam deadpanned.

"Thank you. God, you knew?" Dean shuddered, keeping his eyes on Sam.

Sam shrugged, judging from what he had recognized in some of the jars, Ellicott's experiments had obviously been wide ranging, unnecessary and extremely cruel.

"Let's get this done, Dean."

Dean aimed the light back onto the shelves. "You first."


	10. Chapter 10

**Funeral Pyres**

**Chapter 10**

**S s S s S**

Dean raised his hand letting the flashlight roll to his fingertips; Sam took it from him, curling his bruised knuckles around it. Dean noticed the fleeting look of discomfort that crossed his brother's face.

He wasn't happy about Sam's determination to stay at the asylum. He understood Sam's motivation, the guilt and pain and Sam's innate desire to do what he considered the 'right' thing, but it didn't mean that he agreed with the sentiment or liked it. His own guilt still rankled, and he was astute enough to realize that this was something they both had to do. Maybe.

Dean watched intently as Sam stepped into the storage room. Something was just ever so slightly off with his brother. Understandable given their present circumstance, but if there was one thing Dean did well, it was read his little brother, like a cheap paperback. Through his exhaustion and bloodied features Dean had caught a glimpse of some indefinable emotion reflected in Sam's eyes. Sam had sat on the floor with his body tilted as if listening for something and had been unable to meet Dean's eyes. God knew what was bouncing around in that idiot head. Sam had always been one to over-think things, not happy unless he gnawed at a problem until he or it surrendered. Sam never surrendered.

Sam was still not too steady on his feet, stumbling over the floor. Dean came up to his side, a steadying hand on Sam's elbow.

"Okay, Einstein, what's your cunning plan?" Dean tried to sound casual, as if being surrounded by preserved antique body parts were a routine occurrence.

Sam was chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. "You're totally freaked, aren't you?"

Dean shook his head and then stopped. "Well, maybe, just a little and don't sound so freaking cool about it. It's very disconcerting." Dean gave his shoulders a shake.

Sam moved closer to the shelves, reaching out to trail his hand across the dusty surface of one of the large jars, a formless grey shape resting on the bottom. He suddenly stopped, his fingers splayed around the glass. Dean tensed; Sam seemed to be waiting, for what, Dean really didn't want to contemplate. Sam let his hand drop, and started to walk slowly around the room, passing the beam of the flashlight methodically back and forth along each shelf, pausing every few seconds, staring into the gloom at something Dean couldn't see. He was muttering under his breath and Dean realized that he was counting.

At the end of the room Sam stopped, shining the light onto the filing cabinet. He reached out and tugged at the handle of the top draw, after a few attempts it ground open. He stuck his hand in, pulling out several tatty manila folders.

"What's that?" Dean stepped over, taking the flashlight and holding it as Sam flicked through one of the folders.

Sam shook his head. "I think these are consent forms, or committal forms, whatever." He leafed through a few brittle pages. Freeing one from the file, he held it under the light and ran a finger over a paragraph. "Look, this section is about some new procedure that Ellicott was pioneering." He paused, scanning down the page. "Shit. Dean, look at the signature."

Dean peered down to where Sam was pointing. A large shaky X marked the page.

"I'm not getting the significance here, Sammy. So some of those lunatics couldn't write. Not exactly earth-shattering news". Dean could see Sam's fingers clenching around the old papers.

"The point is, Dean, Ellicott got his own patients, who I _know_, had no clue what the guy was going to do, to agree to his experiments. I guess he would have gone ahead anyway, but he probably decided he was covering his own miserable ass. By supposedly getting written consent. Fucking bastard." Sam spat out the last words. He shoved the files back into the cabinet, and wheeled about, making for the door.

Dean grabbed his jacket. "Hey, take it easy, Sam. I don't think..." He was cut off as Sam twisted around, wrenching it away.

"Get off me," he hissed.

Dean stepped back, and shone the light right into Sam's face. "Okey dokey, Sammy. Who are ya channeling this time? Or is this just you, at your ever charming best?" Dean smiled with what he hoped was his best encouraging and kind to little brother's smile. No shotguns in the wrong hands, this time, he reassured himself.

Sam's eyes widened and he dropped his head to his hands. "Oh, fuck. Dean. I'm so sorry, man. It's not like that, really it's not. I mean, maybe a little, but I'd never, not again. Shit, please don't think." Sam was staring at Dean now and Dean was alarmed to see his bottom lip quiver minutely.

He grabbed Sam's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "Shut up, Sam." He turned the flashlight to the door. "Were you going somewhere special?"

Sam shook his head. "It's too distracting in here. I need to think."

"Distracting not quite the word I'd use." Dean followed Sam back to Ellicott's procedure room.

Sam slumped to the floor and sat hunched over Dean's bag, one hand resting on it. Dean stood, taking in his brother's weary demeanor. He dropped down next to Sam. Time to get some answers, he thought grimly.

"Are you going to tell me what going on here, or should I assume you've gone as crazy as Ellicott and his cohorts." Dean nudged Sam with his shoulder. "Because this 'I'm okay, we're okay" routine, closely followed by trying to rip my head off, literally and figuratively is getting a tad tedious."

Sam kept his head down and sighed running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"I'm wide open, Dean." He pulled the bag closer and peered inside, not looking toward the man next to him.

"Translation, please." Dean already knew where the conversation was headed, but he needed to hear it in Sam's own words. He had a feeling that Sam did too.

"Like I told you before, I can feel them. Only it's worse now. In there," Sam waved a hand over his shoulder. "When I found those papers, when I touched those jars. It vibrates right down to my bones. Their pain, their fear." Sam looked at his brother and Dean felt a rise of anger at the shimmer of unshed tears. "Their anger and despair. Ellicott used them, because nobody else gave a damn." Sam blinked a few times and continued, "I was thinking we should destroy what's in those jars, empty them. But I don't think I can, every time I get too close, well, you know." He trailed off and turned away, Dean could feel a slight tremor as he brushed against his arm.

This had gone far enough, he decided angrily. His brother was hurting and although he wasn't going to tell Sam, he was one of those, who right now, didn't give a damn about Ellicott's patients. They were messing with Sam and Sam felt sorry for them, the entire thing made Dean's head hurt. Empathy was fine, but Sam couldn't leave at that. Oh no, he had to take it to a one step further. Dean got to his feet and smiled cheerfully down at Sam.

"Watch and learn little bro." He bent down and dragged a crowbar from the bag, retrieving the flashlight he strode purposefully back to the storage room.

"Dean, Dean. Wait." Sam sounded alarmed.

Long strides took Dean back to the filing cabinet; he laid the flashlight on the top, aiming the beam at the shelving opposite.

This was going to be messy. "Don't worry it won't hurt a bit," he snarled. With two hands on the crowbar he swung along the nearest shelf, screwing his eyes shut as the glass splintered and cracked. Tiny splashed of cold liquid landed on his face and he craned his head and neck back, as he took another swing at the jars.

The noise of glass shattering echoed around the small room, the astringent smell of the preserving fluid burning his nostrils. It pooled on the shelves and dripped onto the concrete floor. Dean swung the crowbar again and again, ignoring the needle pricks of fractured glass on his hands and face. He hadn't asked Sam how many jars he'd counted, but within a few minutes they lay smashed around him. He lowered the crowbar and breathing heavily, he leaned against the filing cabinet, using the flashlight to check the damage.

Most of the glass still sat on the shelves in haphazard piles, with a few shards littering the floor, their contents evident still evident amid the broken pieces, in some cases torn up with the jars.

Dean brushed his hands lightly over his face, dislodging slivers of glass and other detritus best left unexamined. He stunk. His clothes and hair splattered liberally. He crunched back across the floor.

Sam was leaning against the door frame and as Dean got closer he realized that the dark smudge beneath his nose was fresh blood. Sam wiped a shaking hand under his nose, absently rubbing his hand across his jeans. Dean reached him just as his legs buckled. They both landed hard on their knees, Sam clinging to Dean's jacket.

"They didn't like that too much," Sam whispered and then wrinkling up his nose, "Christ, you reek."


	11. Chapter 11

**Funeral Pyres**

**Chapter 11**

**S s S s S**

Sam watched as Dean marched toward the darkened doorway, swinging the crowbar as he went. He realized immediately what Dean intended to do, and by the sudden prickly increase of static energy around him, so did his silent companions.

At the first sound of breaking glass, the softly swirling air currents brushing against him began to stir, becoming more agitated with each resounding crash that reverberated through the narrow entrance.

Sam staggered to the door, squinting as liquid and fragmented glass flew into the air, sparkling incongruously in the confined beam of the flashlight.

Dull stabs of panic throbbed behind his eyes and a warm rush swept across his sinuses. The feelings, like before, were not his own, but this time the emotions were muted, sharp edges blunted. Sam recognized the intrusive fear and confusion as distinctly outside his own awareness. Although their presence still weighed heavily against his mind, he was able to push them aside. It took some effort, both mentally and physically, his leg muscles shaking to hold him up. Had he suddenly developed some internal defense or was Dean's destructive little escapade having an effect? Sam propped himself against the doorframe, as Dean lowered the crowbar for the last time and surveyed the damage with a bleak satisfaction.

Dean was just a few steps away, when Sam felt the slow trickle of blood from his nose and his knees decided that enough was enough.

SssS

They stayed huddled together clutching at each other, for several minutes, slowly matching their breathing, Sam listening expectantly and Dean never taking his eyes from his brother's face.

Sam gradually loosened his grip on Dean's jacket. He closed his eyes, resting his fingertips against his forehead. Dean broke the silence.

"What is it? Are you okay? They're not giving you some kind of aneurysm, are they?" The barely suppressed panic clear in his voice.

Sam gave his head a half shake. "No, nothing like that." He opened his eyes; Dean was leaning in close, face etched with worry. "And you can quit looking so guilty, I think it worked. A bit, anyway."

Dean sat back on his heels. "It did? You just said that it pissed'em off, and," Dean tapped his own nose, "it looked as if it didn't do you much good, either."

"They didn't like it, but what I could feel was more like confusion than anger, and it wasn't anywhere near as strong as before. They're weaker, I guess. They're still here, just not as loud, if you know what I mean." Sam's voice dropped away as Dean screwed up his face into an unhappy grimace.

"I knew that Haley Joel comment would come back and bite me in the ass."

If Dean hadn't looked so serious Sam would have laughed. "Dude, _you_ see dead people. I'm just getting them with complementary surround sound."

"Yeah, well it seems like the subwoofer's stuck in your head, and that can't be good." Dean shone the flashlight back into the storage room. "So, if totaling those jars worked a bit, we should be able to step it up a notch and get it to work a lot." Dean pushed himself up.

"What?" Sam peered up at Dean. "What are you going to do?"

Dean was heading back to the where the bag lay open on the floor.

"Plan B failed to give satisfactory results, so it's back to Plan A." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small metal square, with a skillful flick of his hand he levered the top off and a small flame jumped to life. Sam watched as the shadows danced across Dean's face, as his eyes focused on the steady blue fire.

Sam opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut, observations about Dean's pyromaniacal tendencies dying away on the tip of his tongue. His head was clear, for the first time since returning to the asylum, he felt alone. Free from unseen pressure and untouched. He was startled to realize that he was not calmed by the sudden absence.

Dean was moving again, retrieving the accelerant, tucking it under his arm and turning to face Sam.

"We should be able to keep it confined to that room. That stuff ain't gonna burn too well, but from what you say, maybe it will be enough." Dean paused. "Sam, what's wrong?"

Sam sat on the floor, he heard the words, but their meaning bounced off him, the profound silence drowning out Dean's voice. A fleeting sensation brushed across his mind, immediately prompting the image of something trying to hide.

Sam checked the room. There was nothing to see. He reached out a hand. "I think we'd better be quick, something's not right."

Dean raised his eyebrows in reply. "One, that's the understatement of the year and two, what's not right is you're not bitching about smoking this place out." He grabbed for Sam's hand.

Sam caught the movement from the corner of his eye, but it was too late.

The gurney Sam had earlier disturbed was suddenly flung across the room; wobbling wildly, it cannoned into Dean, sending him sprawling across the floor. Sam was knocked sideways; rolling over, he curled into himself, arms covering his head. The gurney toppled over, wheels spinning furiously.

Sam lowered his arms; Dean was face down, unmoving.

"Dean, Dean. Shit. " Sam scrambled to his brother's side, giving him a tentative shake. There was no response.

"Aw, man, don't check out on me now. Your head's way harder than that." Pulling on Dean's jacket, he managed to flip him over. Dean gave a little snuffle. His eyes stayed closed and an angry red mark marred his temple.

Sam got to his feet, a cold burning fury growing within him. He thought that they had wanted, no, needed his help. That they were lost, trapped on the peripheries of death, frantically seeking release.

"You're no better that Ellicott. You know that." He wanted to scream, but his voice was cracked and harsh. Sam stood swaying in the darkness, his brother unconscious at his feet. He was tired of being afraid, of being bombarded with the emotional strafe of so many dispossessed souls. "This is over. You want peace, you can have it. Leave us alone."

The shadows wavered and grew darker, and as before, formed into the small figure that had led Sam back to the basement. This time, though, her outline was blurred, the details of her face indistinct and to Sam's newly heightened awareness she seemed to have faded.

"N..n..n..all." The intermittent murmur barely reached his ears. Not all. Sam thought he understood what she was trying to say. Not all sought to move on. There were those who did not want to leave Roosevelt Asylum, their collective presence weaker than those who had called Sam to help them, but still strong enough to protest. He glanced down at his brother's motionless form. Fear guided their actions; they had spent too long wandering empty hallways and reliving Ellicott's cruelty.

The spirit was becoming fainter, evaporating slowly into the air and as she disappeared the hint of a whisper floated across. "Stop them."

Sam couldn't tell if the words were a plea or a promise. He knelt down, lightly trailing his fingers over Dean's face. Dean's eyelids twitched.

"I guess I should have let you torch the place, first time. Sorry." He found the lighter in a pocket and searching around in the debris located the can of accelerant. Not bothering with the flashlight, Sam stepped carefully toward the storeroom, his senses on high alert.

Sam knew that the potent mix that Dean always carried was not going to be sufficient fuel to destroy the grisly remnants of the storage jars. Sam made for the filing cabinet, groping for the drawer handle and hauling it open. His hand closed around the aged documents and he pulled a handful free from a folder. Behind him one of the shelving units began to creak, ignoring the subtle pressure forming behind his eyes, he snapped open Dean's lighter and brought it to the paper in his hand.

Glass began to drop onto the floor as the units began to shake violently. Something flew past his head, smacking into the wall and then dropping to the floor.

The paper lit instantly, flaring up so quickly that Sam dropped it to the floor, grabbing more from the cabinet and adding it to the flames. The broken jars rattled against the metal and Sam ducked as a jagged chunk of glass flew at his head.

A cold breeze came from the open door and as Sam head jerked back up, it slammed shut. The shelves stopped shaking and the glass was silenced. Sam crouched down, feeding the fire. The air crackled around him, the pressure in his head increased and blinking into the semi-dark around him, Sam could make out a luminescent shimmer, a twisting form that hovered in the centre of the room. It twisted in on itself and with an audible pop split into two, the separate halves snaking around each other.

A low hum emanated from the coiled shapes, rising in intensity, the vibration roiling across the ruined glass, causing the scattered papers to flutter. Sam's fire jumped and sparked.

A voice tickled in his ear.

"Free us, Sam."

Resentment and anguish, fear and fight. Sam knew he was watching a confrontation, a struggle born from the fear of abandoning an aimless earthbound existence and crossing into the unknown.

Stooping down, Sam took the can and emptied the accelerant over the scattered glass, tossing the files and their contents onto the shelves. Igniting a sheath of paper, Sam threw it onto the nearest shelf.

With a sudden rush of air, the fire sprang into life, racing along the shelves, gobbling up paper and accelerant alike. Amid the orange heart of the flames, small patches of lilac and green appeared, flicking on and off. Sharp snapping sounds began to ricochet around the room, the piles of glass heating and cracking, the metal of the shelves expanding and warping underneath them.

Sam gazed upward, the shimmering forms were almost obliterated by the harsh glow of the fire, and the persistent buzz at the back of his head was fading away. The heat on his face becoming uncomfortable, Sam backed slowly up to the door. The struggling entities had now almost disappeared. With his hands behind him, he fumbled for the door handle, but it was stuck.

Catching his breath, Sam realized that he was finding it increasingly difficult to breath. The shelves were shrouded in flame, the fire licking up the ceiling. It should by dying down by now, he thought, there was nothing else to burn. The furniture was metal, the floor concrete, but the fire was obviously not concerned by such limitations.

Sam tried to look away but the dancing flames were almost hypnotic. Although he stayed with his back firmly pressed up against the door, it felt as if he were being drawn inextricably towards the fire. As he watched, it grew outward, tendrils of heat reaching for him. Dark shapes flitted through the flames. A human silhouette, tall and thin and then another, smaller.

There were no voices calling to him, no one's pain touched his mind. The spirits of Roosevelt were burning, a final vision of their earthly forms impressed into the pyres that consumed the last of their mortal remains.

Sam's head was spinning, his breathing quick and shallow. Was this his destiny, he wondered, a life fated from the very start to watching others burn?

He slid down the door, and then there she was again. With a conscious effort, Sam lifted his heavy eyelids. A small woman of about 50, her previous pale and ragged appearance replaced by, what at one time, must have been her true form. Chestnut hair framed a kindly face, her deep brown eyes reflecting a gentle smile.

"Go child." Flames curled around her and her image began to fade, her final words hanging in the air as she vanished into the blaze. "Stay in the light, Sam."

Grabbing the handle, Sam hoisted himself to his feet. The door opened easily, the fire at his back roaring up at the sudden influx of fresh oxygen.

Sam toppled through the doorway, his headlong dive the ground interrupted by strong arms wrapping around him and dragging him away from the heat.

A groggy voice, warm breath against his face. "Sammy, I'm disappointed. I thought I taught you never to play with matches."


	12. Chapter 12

**Funeral Pyres**

**Chapter 11**

**S s S s S**

_A/N: Many thanks for all the wonderful reviews .Makes all the difference. One more chapter to go!_

**S s S s S**

Dean tightened his grip around his brother and staggered back a few steps. Sam was a dead weight against his chest and he was sliding slowly down to the ground. Gritting his teeth, Dean gave one last heave and fell back into the hallway. Unbalanced by Sam's bulk, his feet slipped from under him and they crashed to the floor.

It took a few seconds for Dean to regain his breath, his lungs emptied from hitting the hard floor and by the smothering impact of his brother's body.

"Hey, Sam, Sammy," Dean gave a strangled gasp. "Need to breath, buddy."

A groan came from the vicinity of his chest and then a muffled sigh.

"Lemme 'lone, s'comfy." Sam slurred into a face full of jacket. Dean glared down his nose at the dark, mussy head and gave it a light tap.

"Move." Dean pushed at Sam's shoulders and with a pitiful groan, Sam rolled onto the floor beside him. Dean breathed deeply, catching his breath as his previous injuries twinged crossly and suppressing a cough, at the taste of smoke and fire caught in the back of his throat. He sat up; through the door, the faint flush of the smoldering fire was just visible. It was dying down, still limited to Ellicott's storage facility.

He turned to Sam, poking him in the ribs. "You alive down there?" Sam's eyes were closed; he rolled his head from side to side.

"No? Pity, because I was going to congratulate you, on your combustion skills. Makes me feel all warm and tingly." Dean leaned over, and blew on his brother's face. "Now open your eyes and tell me it worked." Before another, otherworldly creep raises its ugly head, he thought. His chest ached, his head ached, and he was covered in substances that he was not even going to think about, he really wanted another shower and a deep meaningful relationship with a bed.

Sam scrunched up his face, squeezing his eyes tightly shut; he raised his arm, blindly waving his hand in Dean's direction. Dean grabbed it between his own hands. The fire had to have worked. They were out of options otherwise. Sam's face was masked with dried blood, deep bruise-like crescents framing his eyes. Dean knew that they were both at the very limit of their endurance and Sam had paid a heavy price for his psychic susceptibilities.

Sam's face relaxed. He pushed his palm against Dean's hand, intertwining their fingers. He opened his eyes and gave Dean a lopsided smile.

"They're gone." He whispered.

Dean sagged with relief. "Fuck." He expelled a heavy breath. "What about you? What happened while I was out?" He kept a firm hold on Sam's hand.

"I'm okay, I guess. My head doesn't hurt anymore. Some of them didn't want to go, but once I got that stuff burning, they all just faded away." Sam lowered his eyes. "Are you okay? You got smacked in the head."

Dean realized that he wasn't being told everything, but right now was not the time, later, when they were rested and they had put a good chunk of highway between them and Roosevelt Asylum. Then, he could ask a few awkward questions.

"I'm good. Everything hurts like a bitch, but I'm good. Come on, every one else has left the party. There's a pillow with my name on it, let's go." Dean offered Sam an elbow, and with minimal cursing, they struggled to their feet.

"We need to get the bag." Dean gestured at the door, the room beyond no longer lit from the fire.

"Sure." Sam agreed and made no effort to move, his body tilting toward Dean. Dean leaned back, a counter balance to his brother's unsteadiness.

"We could get another one." Sam suggested. Dean sighed, that was his favorite bag of tricks.

He guided Sam to the wall. "Don't go anywhere."

Dean stepped warily back into the procedure room. He believed Sam. The ghosts had gone, but the place had made him a little gun-shy, in more ways than one. He ducked through the wrecked wall and into Ellicott's private room, passing the bag; he carefully approached the storage room. The smell of smoke and chemicals hung cloyingly in the air, the room was dark again; no tell tale glow, no cinders lingering in the black interior.

It was over, and remarkably, he and Sam were still relatively intact. Dean slowly turned a full circle, taking a last look at the place that had almost cost him his life and his brother. Was it a conscious shift of perception, now he knew that the place was finally free of its long-term inmates? The room around felt less crowded, less intimidating, it was hard to recall the tangible presence that had pervaded the building. It was now nothing more than a destitute and empty monument to forgotten victims and institutionalized cruelty. Jesus, Dean shook himself; he'd been hanging around with Sam for too long.

It took Dean two attempts to get the bag onto his shoulder. He lurched back into the hallway. Sam was slumped against the wall, mapping the inside of his eyelids.

This was going to be fun. Dean doubted their ability even to competently climb the stairs. He nudged Sam. "Time to drag your ass out of here."

Halfway up the stairs, Dean slung his arm around Sam's waist and hauled him the rest of the way. One painful foot in front of the other, Dean was sweating and swearing continuously under his breath by the time they reached the main doors. The Impala sat patiently, waiting for them.

Dean stuffed Sam into the passenger seat, threw the bag in the back and put his foot down. He kept his eyes on the road and ignored the rear view mirror. As they approached the main gate, Sam twitched in his seat and suddenly sat forward, his eyes wide.

"Sam?" Dean braked slowly, ready to stop the car. Sam fell back against the seat, frowning.

"Nothing. Don't worry." Sam turned his head to the passenger window.

Later Sammy, Dean promised silently. He didn't have the energy to argue the point. He turned onto the highway and stepped on the gas.


	13. Chapter 13

**Funeral Pyres**

**Chapter 13**

**SsSsS**

Dean cut the engine; their room was right in front of the car. Neither of them moved. A light drizzle dotted the windscreen. Sam rested his head against the cool of the window, and watched the tiny globules of water cling to the glass. The car was warm and he could hear light huffs of breath, as Dean leant forward and rested his chin on the steering wheel. Sam felt safe, cocooned in the familiar haven of the old car, the outside world blurring to a hazy backdrop behind the rain on the windows. Moving seemed like an unnecessary chore.

Someone was shouting. Near the motel office, two men were arguing. Sam recognized one as the clerk who had checked them in, the other a large, heavyset man, with an impressive salt and pepper beard, was waving his arms wildly and then pointing repeatedly at a spot in the parking lot.

Dean slouched down in his seat, pulling his jacket up around his shoulders.

Sam looked at his brother and then back at irate man outside and then back at Dean.

"What?" Dean challenged.

"Do you know that guy?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced across, out of the far window. "No, but his truck steers like a cow."

"Ah." Sam thought it best not to pursue that line of conversation.

"Yes, 'ah'. You should get out and thank the poor dude, seeing on how it was his wheels that got me to you. Just in the nick of time. Not that I think he'd appreciate it."

The man was now looming over the hapless clerk, who was backing up toward the office. It occurred to Sam that they should intervene, but none of his major muscle groups was willing. The clerk managed to make it back to the office, nodding furiously.

"Do you think we should help out?" Sam asked mildly.

"Nah, I think we've done enough of that today. Besides, right now, that guy could probably twist us up like pretzels. With both hands tied behind his back."

Sam agreed. The owner of the truck yelled a few choice words at the door and marched back across the parking lot.

"Thanks, by the way." Sam turned to face his brother. Dean was now reclining against his seat, head tilted back. "Thanks for coming for me, despite, you know." Sam felt awkward, he was sincerely grateful to his brother, but his words sounded flat. The manic intensity of the emotions wrung from him earlier now left him feeling empty and apathetic.

Dean sighed, examining the roof above. "I don't care if I never, ever hear the words 'Roosevelt Asylum' again. I didn't want to talk about this before and I don't want to now."

"Dean, I'm s. .sorry." Sam stumbled, a fresh razor of pain unexpectedly added to his already significant assortment. He fumbled for the door.

A hand gripped his upper arm, tugging him back.

"God, Sammy, stop taking off before I have a chance to finish. I was wrong. Nothing that happened with Ellicott was your fault and if I let you think it was, I am sorry. I shouldn't have brushed you off this morning. You shouldn't have taken off without talking to me, but I get that you thought I was pissed. Neither of us was very smart and we both paid the price. I know that you thought you couldn't tell me that something was bugging you." Dean loosened his grip, but left his hand resting on Sam's arm. "I don't want to make the same mistake again, Sam."

Sam stared down at his torn and bloodied hands, remembering screaming for his brother, terrified that he had lost him to the asylum.

"They thought I was like them. Because he was in my head, making me do stuff that I would never do." He shot Dean a quick look. "Everybody has crazy stuff floating around in their heads. Things they think about, but would never act on." Sam stopped; the rain was heavy now, drumming against the roof. "It's the difference between sane and crazy." He whispered, almost to himself.

"How do you tell which is which?" Dean moved his hand from Sam's arm and curling his fingers inwards, flicked them at Sam's temple.

Sam jerked his head away. "Crazy people don't know they're crazy." He leaned back, the pitter-patter of raindrops washing away the outside noise of the road and the motel. He was so tired.

Dean tilted his chin and smirked. "By that definition, you could be, as we speak, batshit crazy, and not know it."

Sam nodded absently. "It had crossed my mind, once or twice today." Without the heat of the engine, the windows were beginning to fog over. The world beyond the car disappearing behind the thin covering of condensation.

Dean straightened up in his seat, his posture like his face, more attentive.

"Okay, let's make a deal. No more Sam Winchester patented guilt-trips and I'll listen in a totally sympathetic and emphatic manner to your sordid little story of ghoulies, ghosties and things that go bump mid-morning."

"That's rather a one-sided deal." Sam bit down a small smile. "Sympathetic? I thought you had a reputation to maintain." He was starting to feel quite relaxed now and more than a little disconnected. His mind was starting to drift, his thoughts sliding into a comfortable daze. He settled into his seat and closed his eyes, quietly relishing the silence within and without.

"I always liked sleeping in the car, you know, when we were kids. Dad driving. Curling up on the back seat. The hum of the engine, some crappy radio station playing. It was good."

Surprised at Dean's words, Sam cracked open an eye. "Is this your maudlin attempt at empathy or something?" Sam closed the eye again, shutting out Dean's rather inscrutable expression. He didn't want to move, the car a warm familiar cradle. His brother's words reflecting his own memories, despite his response.

"Or something." Dean echoed. "We have a perfectly good motel room about ten feet from here. I think we should use it. You need to clean up and get some rest."

"I'm not the only one." Sam remembered the damage evident on Dean's chest; reluctantly he sat up, blinking blearily.

"True, but I'm not the one with the psychic hotline on speed-dial. In my head. How's that going by the way, any calls?" Sam was not fooled at Dean's was attempt at casual, the sharp intonation of his last words cutting through the small space between them.

Sam tried to focus through the obscured windscreen. Since leaving the asylum his senses had been mercifully muted. His awareness no more acute than before his trip back to Ellicott's old haunt. He would have happily buried whole experience, and its apparent side effects, under the cozy blanket of denial. He'd done it before. Except for those two words. Popping to his mind and then sliding slowly away, their imprint lingering long after Dean had driven through the perimeter gate. Even now, the words bobbed easily to the surface of his conscious mind.

"_Always, Sam."_ A gently taunting promise.

"No." Sam didn't look at Dean. It was an obvious lie.

"Really?" Dean tapped carelessly at the steering wheel. "Did I tell you that one of them talked to me? Mostly about you."

Sam stilled. He ran his tongue over dry lips. "What did she say?"

"This and that. She, Sam?" Sam looked up, Dean's eyes glinted a hard green, and he swiveled around and pushed open the door. Sam drew back at the cold drops of rain that blew into the car. Dean carefully pushed the door closed. A few seconds later, the passenger door opened. Dean hooked his elbows over the top of the window frame, turning his face into the falling rain.

Sam watched him surreptitiously. It hadn't occurred to him that his brother had interacted with the spirits. The small ragged figure that had appeared to him had certainly kept her communications brief. Curiosity and anxiety stirred in his gut. Couldn't be too bad, he concluded hopefully. At least, this time, Dean hadn't slammed the door in his face. Sam dropped his eyes as Dean leaned toward him.

"Out, and for God's sake keep your head down or you'll frighten the neighbors."

SsSsS

Sam stood just inside the door and watched, bemused, as Dean pulled off his jacket, dropped it to the floor and headed straight for the bathroom. This time, he left the door open; Sam listened at the clatters and noises of faucets turning and showers hissing. The room walls ebbed slowly back and forth and the floor rolled gently under his feet. He was beginning to feel a little concerned when Dean appeared at the bathroom door. "Shake a leg, Sam. Shower's ready and don't use all the hot water."

Sam swayed towards him.

"Oh, God. No face-plants in the tub. I am not holding your hand." Dean steered him into the bathroom.

While Sam scrubbed at the ingrained effects of his time at the asylum, his muscles twitching with pleasure at the sting of hot water, Dean sat on the toilet and provided a running commentary on his, apparently, epically heroic rescue mission. Sam was glad for the flimsy, plastic barrier of the shower curtain between them, as Dean blithely recounted finding himself imprisoned in the isolation ward and subsequently following Sam's bloody trial back down to the basement.

Sam turned off the water. A towel was slung over the curtain rail. He didn't want to hear any more, it was too much. He left Dean to his shower.

The hot water had exacerbated his dizziness. Sam dragged on a t-shirt and some sweat pants and collapsed onto his bed. The room spun. For a brief, sickening instant, the mundane décor the motel room was overlaid with a skewed image of damp walls and moldy fixtures, bathed in a blue tinged light. Sam shuddered and the vision dissolved.

A trick of the light, a trick of memory or something more, Sam couldn't ignore the slight tingle that had trailed down his back. A reminder, then. A warning, even. Maybe his own subconscious prodding him. Sam closed his eyes, better his own fears and insecurities than those of another.

Someone was shaking him, calling his name. He peeled open an eyelid, Dean was waving a cup at him.

"Sorry, Sam. I think you should eat something before we turn in." Dean pressed a large takeout cup into his hand. Sam sat up and took a gulp.

"Tea." He yelped.

"No coffee before bed time. Tea's more soothing. Here." Dean upended a bag and a wrapped sandwich fell into Sam's lap. "It's not much, but it's fresh." He sat on the opposite bed and attacked his own food.

The sweetened tea was actually pretty good, and Sam sipped it slowly. He eyed the sandwich.

"I'm not hungry. Thanks." He offered it to Dean, who pushed it back to him.

"You need it. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm freakin' exhausted, I'd probably drag your sorry ass to the nearest clinic. So, do what you're told and eat it." Dean's mouth was full.

"If your brain's not dribbling out of your ears tomorrow, I'll let it go. Okay?"

Sam unwrapped the sandwich and decided not to argue.

Dean finished eating; he kicked of his boots and sprawled back on his bed.

"I could sleep for a week." He murmured.

Sam chewed slowly on the thick bread, watching Dean close his eyes and settle into the mattress. He was surprised that Dean wasn't pushing for a more detailed explanation of his adventures at the asylum. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind.

"What did the spirit tell you, Dean? About me?" Damn. The question wriggled out past a mouthful of sandwich before he could stop it.

Dean did not reply immediately, Sam swallowed, ready to repeat the question when Dean turned towards him.

"Like you said, Sammy, they were attracted to you. Must be the big ol' shiny shining thing you've got happening." Dean yawned. "What made you decide to go all John Edwards on me, anyway? Besides thinking I was gonna tear you a new one?"

"He's a fake, you know." Sam scrunched up the empty wrapper and tossed it onto the bedside table, trying not to notice how Dean's voice had wobbled a fraction.

"Yeah, I've heard your, 'all celebrity psychics should be burned at the stake' rant, numerous times. So you're saying you're the real deal?" Dean propped himself up, studying Sam with interest.

"No." Sam snapped. "Well, okay. Yes."

"That's clear."

"I heard them, as we left, the first time. Calling for me. It made my head hurt. I had to go back, and you, you were.." Sam coughed. "We were having trouble communicating."

"I get it." Dean nodded. "You rushed off in a guilt-ridden, angsty fit, to do psychic battle on behalf of a bunch of dead lunatics. Who then decided you were cute and wanted to keep you. Jesus."

"Screw you." Sam said half-heartedly, stifling a yawn.

"Did the spirits say anything to you, about …stuff?" Dean was circumspect.

Sam frowned, hesitating. There was nothing to tell. Two or three words uttered in the darkness by restless souls, were not worth repeating. Sam would not forget them easily, but they were small things that he could wrap up tightly and bury deep.

"No, nothing much. They wanted me to free them, to show them the way forward. Which, I had no idea in hell, how to do. And then, they got a bit carried away. You were there." Sam found himself picking at a loose thread hemming his t-shirt.

"You mean, when they tried to kill you. Yeah, I thought that was particularly nice of them." Dean sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to face Sam. "Please do not do that, ever again. I mean it, Sam. Don't you ever go off on you own again, like that. Understand?"

Sam noticed that Dean had balled his hands into fists, arms tense against his body.

He cleared his throat. "They didn't mean to." Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, Sam held up a hand. "They didn't, but you're right. No running off half-cocked, by either of us. It'll only land us in trouble and we have enough of that as it is." He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. "We're good?" He squinted at Dean.

"We're good." Dean puffed out his cheeks and breathed out a loud gush of air, flopping back down to the bed.

SsSsS

The drapes were pulled, the lights were out and Dean's breaths were coming deep and even, as he slept, sprawled on his back. Sam lay quietly, his muscles lax. His body was relaxed, but his mind twitched and jumped, random thoughts circling fitfully, chasing their tails. A frisson of unease rippled over him, it was a light, almost teasing sensation, not frightening or alarming. Just there.

Sam rolled his head across his pillow. He was finally drifting off, when a cell phone started to ring.

SsSsS

The End

SsSsS

_A/N: 'Tis doneAgain a huge thank you to all, for all the wonderful and regular reviews. I've really enjoyed writing this story, and I'm thrilled that people have enjoyed reading it. This last chapter was probably the hardest, it was hard to finish without one final 'whump', but I think the boys have suffered enough. For the moment._


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